


Soft Q

by earlybloomingparentheses



Series: The Sibilant Series [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Breathplay, But also kind of a character study, Dominant Bond, F/M, Humiliation, Light Feminization, M/M, PWP, Power Dynamics, Submissive Q, The Bond/OFC stuff is in the context of Bond/Q, auditory voyeurism, basically SEX AND SPIES, but light on the actual spying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Q is acutely aware of the picture he makes, scrawny and bare, crouching on his haunches below nearly six feet of solid muscle and compacted power. He is acutely aware that by leaving his computer he has ceded his own power to Bond, shedding it like his clothes. He feels larval, un-shelled; Bond’s claws are sharp and he is so, so soft.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In which Bond wrecks Q, and Q wants him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Q

**Author's Note:**

> There's rough sex and lots of power play in this fic, and while it's consensual, Bond and Q neither check in with each other during the act nor plan it out beforehand, so warnings for that in case that's something you'd rather avoid. Also some questionable voyeurism in the context of spy business. I've posted extended warnings in the notes at the end, if you want more details before reading.

By the time 007 turns his predatory gaze on Q, a few months after the Skyfall mission, the young quartermaster has learned enough about him to understand immediately just how fucked he is.

James Bond’s eyes are steely blue and laser sharp. Q can feel them burning through his clothes, tracing the contours of his slight frame, his slender hips, his concave stomach, boring through his rumpled cardigan as if it were translucent as tissue paper. Heat rockets up from his toes to his ears. His breath catches in his throat. Bond trains his gaze on Q’s face, and smirks.

Q looks away too late. But then again, maybe it was always too late. 007’s brand of cat-and-mouse, of fuck-’em-and-leave-’em, of arrogant superiority and pantherlike control, might have been tailor-made to Q’s fantasies. And Q has always had a taste for danger; well, more than a taste. He works for MI6 for a reason.

“Q,” says Bond, his voice low and amused. Amused, but also, Q thinks with a shiver, deadly. “I’ve just realized how pretty you are.”

Q swallows, clutches the sheaf of papers he’s carrying, and wonders if he should try and make an exit from this narrow windowless hallway. 

“How remiss of me not to notice until now,” Bond says, advancing slowly but steadily. “You’ve obviously been waiting.”

Q’s face burns. _Obviously_. He casts his eyes down at the floor. His cock is thickening embarrassingly in his trousers. With every step Bond takes toward him, he can feel the temperature rise. 

“You have such lovely curls,” Bond says. “And such girlish cheekbones.”

Q’s stomach flips. Bond inches forward and Q finds himself backing up, Bond hedging him in until his back hits the cold cement wall, knocking the air out of him.

“And,” Bond breathes, “such a pretty white throat.”

He places his thick fingertips gently on Q’s bare skin, above his collar, tracing the length of Q’s windpipe. Q’s head hits the wall with a _thud_.

“So white,” Bond continues, “and so very fragile.”

He closes his fingers around Q’s throat. He’s just resting them there, not squeezing, but Q feels as though his air supply has been cut off. His heartbeat shoots up and suddenly he’s breathing like he’s mid-marathon.

Bond presses down, just a fraction. He slides closer, his face mere centimeters away, his hip pushing into Q’s. Q can feel the hard outline of a gun beneath the smooth fabric of Bond’s trousers—which he knows is no accident. Bond tightens his grip another hair.

Q gasps, the air rattling through his slightly constricted throat. _Those hands_ , he thinks, _what those hands have done_ …

“I know you’re a genius,” Bond says conversationally, his lips inches from Q’s mouth. “I know you hold my life in your hands a dozen times daily. I know that when you’re at your computer you could obliterate me with one keystroke, wipe me clean off the map. But,” and his fingers tighten again around Q’s throat, “right now, you are powerless against me. Right now,” he squeezes once, and Q gasps, “I could snap your neck clean through.”

He tightens his grip hard, and Q chokes on his inhale. He struggles to force air into his throat, but there’s nothing, only Bond’s iron fingers pressing on his windpipe, Bond’s gun at his hip, Q’s dizzying arousal. His vision begins to blur at the edges— _Christ, what those hands have done_ —and Bond’s mouth is so close that Q can feel Bond’s hot breath on his lips.

Bond lets go. Q sucks in huge gulps of air as his vision swirls, his head spinning, and it’s only through sheer will that he doesn’t fall to the ground.

“We’ll revisit this later,” Bond says, straightening up and backing away. He is all business again, cold, aloof, his predatory energy tucked away beneath his impenetrable façade. Q stares at him helplessly; he can feel himself leaking through his trousers. 

“Be a good girl and wait for me,” Bond says as he turns to go. “I’ll want those pretty little lips around my cock before long. You choke so nicely, Q.”

Burning humiliation curdles in Q’s stomach as 007 walks away. His throat hurts and his eyelashes are damp. He’s so entirely, utterly fucked. He’s watched Bond take people apart, piece by piece, and then scatter them to the winds before sailing away as cool and untouched as if nothing at all had occurred. Bond is a low-level sociopath. Bond gets what he wants, and what he wants right now is to break Q down until Bond gets bored and moves on.

Q wants that too. He’s so fucked, and he’s so ready.

 

 

 

Bond corners him at two in the morning in Q’s office, three days later. Q has barely been sleeping. He’s been waiting, like Bond told him, and the edge of constant arousal has been at the back of his mind day in and day out.

“Strip,” Bond says without preamble. Q’s hands slip, knocking a few buttons on his keyboard, nearly setting off a chain of very unfortunate world events. He quickly puts his equipment to sleep, using the last vestiges of his self-possession. He spins his chair around to face Bond, his fingers clenched around the armrests.

Bond’s face is hard, but not angry. It’s the face of someone who expects, without question, to get what he wants. Arrogant, self-satisfied—casual, even, like this is nothing, like Bond doesn’t even have to work for it.

Q’s fingers go to his shirt buttons. He slips each one from its hole, ignoring the heat rising to his face. He takes his shirt off, and then his undershirt, not hesitating—though his hands are trembling minutely. 

Bond watches mildly, unbendingly. Only the slightest flare in his cold eyes makes Q aware that this demonstration has any effect on him. Q bends down and unlaces his shoes, removes them, and takes off his socks. He unbuttons his trousers, then lifts his rear off the seat and pulls them and his pants down in one swift movement. He kicks them off his ankles, a little awkwardly, and then, flushing hot with embarrassment, takes off his glasses and looks up at Bond.

“You’re blushing,” Bond observes, smirking a little. “All the way down your chest, Q.”

This only makes Q blush harder. He can feel the smooth, cold leather against his arse as he shifts uncomfortably.

“On your knees,” Bond instructs, and Q’s half-hard cock springs up.

The screens on the office walls cast cold, green-blue light around the darkened room, displaying maps and rows of numbers and scrolling lines of data that form the backdrop of Q’s pale, naked body as he drops to the floor at Bond’s feet. The carpet is rough against his knees. He is acutely aware of the picture he makes, scrawny and bare, crouching on his haunches below nearly six feet of solid muscle and compacted power. He is acutely aware that by leaving his computer he has ceded his own power to Bond, shedding it like his clothes. He feels larval, un-shelled; Bond’s claws are sharp and he is so, so soft.

“Suck,” Bond says, still with that arrogant mildness, and pushes his crotch into Q’s face. 

Q’s stomach flips as he lurches forward, mashing his nose and lips against Bond’s zip, pressing his tongue against the fabric of his trousers. His mouth goes dry as he opens his mouth in the seam of Bond’s legs, trying to suck Bond’s slowly stiffening cock through the cloth.

“Eager, aren’t you,” Bond says with a low chuckle, catching Q’s hair in his hand and stilling him. “Take it out first, Q.”

Q flushes. He nods, too embarrassed to speak, and reaches for the zip. Bond, fast as lightning, grips Q’s wrist and stops him in midair.

“Not with your hands, Q.”

For a second Q is confused, and then understanding hits him, knocking him off kilter. Bond laughs and drops his wrist.

“Go on.”

Q can’t bring himself to meet Bond’s condescending gaze. Instead, he moves his head tentatively forward and takes the button of Bond’s trousers in his mouth. He tugs at it, to no effect. He slips his tongue underneath, trying to push it through the hole, but it keeps sliding out of his mouth. Ears burning, Q bites at the hem of Bond’s trousers, attempting to get his tongue behind the buttonhole, but he manages nothing other than spreading spit all over the top of Bond’s pants and getting several crisp hairs in his mouth.

Shame courses through his body. He rests his forehead briefly against Bond’s pelvis, breathing in and squeezing his eyes shut.

“On with it,” Bond says sharply.

Q bites at Bond’s button angrily. It refuses to give. Feeling close to tears, Q backs off again and nudges it with his nose. Still nothing happens. His efforts are complicated by the fact that Bond is getting harder, getting off on watching Q struggle, and his cock strains against his trousers. Q’s own is hard and heavy between his legs, dripping embarrassingly onto the carpet.

Q mouths at the button again, snaking his tongue alongside it, carefully pulling it back with his teeth. He manages to slide it halfway through before his grip gives and it slips back. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. He knows he must be bright red. Above, he can feel Bond watching, feel his smirk as if it were a hand on the back his neck.

He slips the button through the hole. Relief washes over him like a shower of water so scalding it feels like ice. After a couple of tries he gets the zip between his teeth and pulls it down. Bond’s cock jumps upwards, straining hard against his spit-dampened pants. Q takes the waistband delicately in his teeth and pulls.

Bond’s cock hits him in the face as it springs free, smearing a wet trail across Q’s cheek.

“Good girl,” Bond says, his voice just a little deeper than before. “Now put those pretty little lips to work for me.”

Q sucks, even as his breath hitches. Determined to prove to Bond that he’s good for something, after the struggle with the button, he works his tongue around the head and then plunges farther, suctioning his cheeks in and swallowing as much of Bond’s considerable length as he can. His eyes water but he sucks air in through his nose, keeping his tongue moving.

“Dirty little slut,” Bond says, and Q’s cock jerks. “I thought you might be. You’re far too pretty to be innocent.”

He wraps his broad hand around the back of Q’s head, catching a couple of his hairs painfully between his strong fingers. Q instinctively yanks his head back, but Bond’s hand holds him firm, his lips stretched wide around his cock. He wheezes, spit dripping out of the sides of his mouth. Bond doesn’t let him go.

“Suck,” he orders, sharper this time. “I told you I wanted to see you choke.”

Q’s eyes watering, he struggles to swallow. Bond’s cock is bitter at the back of his throat. He moves his tongue as best as he can, fighting his gag reflex. But after a moment Bond gives an impatient exhale.

“I see I’m going to have to take care of this myself.”

He tightens his grip in Q’s hair, pulls his pelvis back—Q sucks in a breath of cool air, coughing—and then thrusts forward, shoving his cock far down Q’s throat. Q chokes, fighting for breath, as Bond fucks his face, thrusting in and out, as Q struggles to keep his head up and his mouth open. His eyes stream with involuntary tears; _fuck_ , he thinks, _oh God_ , and _yes._

Bond pulls out. Q falls back onto his heels, wheezing, wiping his wet face blindly with one hand and clutching at the floor with the other.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Bond says.

Q knows better than to ask for a moment to recover, but it’s still a shock when Bond grabs him by the wrists and pulls him stumbling to his feet, then slams him facedown across his desk. Q’s face is smeared with spit and tears, his throat raw and bitter with the taste of Bond’s cock, his blindingly white arse in the air, and Bond is holding him there with one knee pressed between Q’s spread legs as Q hears the _snick_ of a cap and the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Q still isn’t breathing properly.

Bond’s finger, wet and ruthless, slides unerringly between Q’s legs and thrusts deep inside him. The sudden burning sensation surprises a sob out of Q. He is reminded again, as Bond’s thick finger pushes in and out with pistonlike strength, of all the terrible things Bond’s hands have done. Bond adds a second and Q thinks of triggers pulled, wrists broken, necks snapped. He thinks of Bond’s fingers sliding down the doors of safes and between the breasts of women, thinks of them pushing home against a detonator, an artery. Bond adds a third and Q stops thinking.

“Christ, you’re tiny,” Bond breathes, his voice tight but still steady. “Your stomach looks like you squeeze it into a corset everyday, and your arse? Christ, do you know what I’m going to look like inside you? My dick is the size of your waist.”

Q’s stomach drops with fear, delicious, overpowering. His nipples rub uncomfortably against the hard surface of the desk, his thighs pressing painfully into the edge of the wood. Bond pulls his fingers ungently out of Q and smacks his arse, once, hard.

“Thought your arse should be as red as the rest of you,” Bond whispers, “you blush like a Victorian maiden,” and he shoves his cock into Q.

Q cries out. At first all he can feel is shock and pain; it’s like having a wooden rod pushed up inside him, _God_ , his head is spinning, but then, then, Bond starts to move, and the pain starts to feel so _good_.

“Ah,” Q gasps, as Bond begins riding his arse hard. Each thrust shoves in straight and true and merciless. Q presses his face up against the desk and pants, his whole body jerking forward and back on Bond’s cock. Little moans start escaping Q’s mouth, involuntary half-sobs, and his hands scrabble helplessly for purchase. Bond is ruthlessly efficient, machinelike in his thrusts. The only noises he makes are tiny grunts, each time he pushes home.

“I—I—” Q gasps inarticulately, because his cock is pinned between himself and the desk and the burn hurts but he’s going to come anyway, or because of that, it’s all too much, he can’t stop—

Bond grabs his hair, pulls his head back, and bites his neck. Q comes hard, screaming, his eyes screwing shut as his cock jerks and pumps hot sticky come onto his chest, and Bond doesn’t stop. He fucks Q through it, squeezing every last drop out of an orgasm so intense and long Q legitimately believes he won’t be able to take it any longer. But he’s pinned beneath Bond, helpless to move, helpless to stop Bond thrusting again and again even once Q’s orgasm has passed. Q can do nothing but lie limp and wet facedown as Bond shoves into him, pushes his body back and forth like a rag doll. It’s too much, Q is whimpering, tears leaking again from the corners of his eyes, but Bond isn’t stopping. This is what Q wanted, for Bond to break him; Q hates it, and never wants it to end.

Bond tenses, goes completely still for a long moment, and then he is shooting hot and wet into Q’s arse. He is breathing hard but is otherwise completely silent, his back arched, his cock pumping into Q.

He pulls out. Q cries, his tender arse smarting, but he can’t seem to move, can’t seem to get up; his head is sluggish and his body exhausted. 

Bond is breathing behind him, short deep breaths through his nose. After a minute, Q hears him slide the condom off and zip himself back up. Then his thumb is sliding around Q, up his stomach, still wet with drying come. He slips it through the sticky mess, coating it, then bends over Q and brings it round to Q’s face.

“Suck,” he orders, and Q, a few stray tears trickling down his face, obeys.

 

 

 

The next day 007 begins a mission in Oslo. Q is his handler, which means he sits at the desk Bond fucked him on not ten hours before, feeling his smarting arse against the chair Bond made him strip off in, his throat sore from choking on Bond’s cock less than five feet away, and watches Bond as a tiny dot on his screen. Bond is right, Q could wipe him off the map with a stroke of his keyboard. He’s got at least a dozen ways to destroy the man at his fingertips: a bomb planted nearby, information slipped to the wrong people, directions to the wrong address, weapons activated (or deactivated) remotely—even just keeping silent at the crucial moment. And early this morning Bond put him on his knees and called him a slut. Without the slightest fear, apparently, that Q would retaliate.

Q watches Bond’s dot with the dedication that astronomers reserve for shooting stars, or meteorologists for the next big storm, crashing across the calm sky.

 

 

 

A few days into the mission, there’s a woman.

Q sends Bond her way, in fact, feeding him details through an earpiece as Bond slinks silently through the corridors of an events hall so cavernous it could house all the secrets in Norway. Currently, MI6 is only interested in one of these secrets, which is standing—in the form of a statuesque blonde socialite—in the hall’s marble ballroom, cocktail glass in hand, deep red dress wrapped around a body even Q, whose interest in women is erratic at most, can’t help but stare at through the hacked security camera feed. Q’s research has suggested that she knows things—or knows people who know things—that he’d thought Bond would have to extract with threats, violence, and a few well-placed explosives. Why go to all the bother, when he can just seduce them out of Kristine Silje instead?

Q’s breathing doesn’t hitch, not a bit, as he listens through the earpiece to Bond’s smooth opening lines to her, and watches him brush his hand against her wrist as if by accident as he reaches for champagne. Her voice is rich and deep and incredibly sophisticated, her English flawless; Bond’s words are just on the right side of too forward. They are both gorgeous people, both poised, and they face each other like two big cats, sleek and contained and powerful. Q feels a prickle of shame as he remembers himself speechless and immobilized before Bond, his scrawny naked body and his helpless gasps. Kristine Silje laughs, her voice ringing clear and bell-like in Q’s earpiece, and Bond’s hand is at her waist.

She leads Bond out of the ballroom and away from the cameras, into what the building’s schematics designate a “smoking lounge.” Q waits for Bond to turn off the earpiece—he usually relays such information immediately after the act—but the feed just keeps going. 

“Oh,” Silje sighs, and there’s the wet noise of kissing, the rustling of fabric. The sounds pick up—heavy breaths, small, bitten-off female moans—and Q shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Has Bond forgotten the earpiece, or did he leave it on because he knows Q is listening?

Silje gasps audibly and Q tries not to imagine Bond’s hands down her dress, or sliding between her legs. He tries not to notice the prickle of jealousy, or the prickle of arousal.

“Tease,” Silje laughs, her voice strained, and Q can hear the dangerous smile in Bond’s voice as he responds.

“I’m more than happy to stop playing around.”

“Get on with it, then,” she answers.

Q hears Bond’s clothes rustle as he pulls back, hears his feet move across the floor as he steps away. And he can hear his voice, crisp, sharp, and crystal clear, as he speaks again:

“Strip.”

Shock and sense memory go straight to Q’s cock: he is immediately hard. And then, the next second, anger and shame rise thick in his throat. Does Bond realize he’s listening? Does he say that to everyone? Why—

Silje lets out a throaty laugh, sounding totally at ease, and Q hears the slide of fabric over smooth skin.

He crosses his legs, angry and uncertain whether he should be angry.

“Well?” Silje asks, her voice low and amused. “What do you think?”

“You’re blushing,” Bond says. “All the way down to your breasts.”

“No,” she denies, laughing, and Q bites his lip so hard he almost draws blood.

“On your knees,” Bond instructs. Q has to stop himself from dropping to the floor.

He listens, shame rising in his mouth like bile, wanting to turn the sound to mute; wanting to drown out the sound of a woman dropping to her knees, the sound of her shuffling— _crawling_ —toward a standing figure still emblazoned on Q’s mind.

“Suck,” Bond says, and Q holds his breath. Bond’s voice sounds so close, like he’s breathing in Q’s ear. “Wait,” he says. “Take it out first." 

Q nearly sobs. He sticks his hand under the desk and pushes his cock down, willing his erection away. His finger pauses over the mute button as he waits for Bond to tell her not to use her hands, but he doesn’t press the button, and the correction never comes.

“Clever girl,” Bond says instead, “I didn’t even have to ask. The last person who went down on their knees for me took nearly half an hour to accomplish that.”

Q’s face is hot, his eyes prickling with tears. Bond knows he’s listening, Bond knows exactly what he’s doing, and— _half an hour_? Surely not, surely it had only felt like an eternity—Q can still feel the hot rush of shame at the memory of his inept fumbling, and Bond is telling this woman—this stunning woman—all about it.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll prove better than her at more than just that,” Silje says throatily.

Q flushes, digging his nails into his palm. “Good girl,” Bond replies, and Q can hear the smirk, meant just for him. “Now put those pretty little lips to work for me.”

Christ, it’s dizzying to hear Bond say those words to Silje, knowing Q is listening; Q can’t decide if he’s more aroused or angry or ashamed by the whole situation. He can hear wet sucking noises and husky feminine moans, and then, again, words he’s heard before.

“Dirty little slut,” Bond says. “I thought so. You’re much too pretty to be innocent.”

Silje moans loudly. “Give it to me,” she pleads—not so unaffected now—and Bond chuckles.

“I want to see you choke.”

Absurd, for Q to be jealous of Bond’s cock blocking someone else’s airway; absurd, for him to resent the spit and the tears he’s making someone else shed; absurd, to be so hard at the sound of this woman choking for air as he tries not to picture her kneeling naked at Bond’s feet.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Bond says.

Both Silje and Q groan aloud. Shit, shit, _shit_ , Q can’t take this any longer.

“You’re so tiny,” Bond says, over the crisp crinkle of plastic. “You look like you wear a corset, Kristine, and your skinny little hips—I hope I fit inside you, Christ, my dick is the size of your waist.”

Q’s biting his lip now, his knuckles white as he grips the side of the desk.

“Oh, I can take you,” Silje says, voice breaking. “I bet that last girl couldn’t take all of you—but I will, James, come on, give it to me—yes—ahh!”

She breaks off with a strangled cry and Q can hear a wet slap start up, rhythmic, persistent, unstopping.

“Yes,” Silje says, “yes, like that, I can take it, oh, James, harder, yes, yes,” and Q remembers his own mute paralysis with a shudder of shame, “yes, fuck me, fuck me harder, James,” and Q buries his head in his hands, breathing deeply, “oh, bite me, bite my nipples, that’s it, I know you want me, suck my tits, James, _James_ —”

And then they’re both crying out, at the same time, Bond’s shout sounding like it’s been ripped from his throat. Q clenches his fists, his fingernails biting into his palms, a hot and furtive sensation snaking its way through his chest, blooming pink along his skin, making his eyes water as he shuts them tight.

There’s no sound over the earpiece other than labored breathing, no slick noise of skin against skin or wet, hot suction. So Q can only imagine that Bond has reached down and fingered where he’s still inside of her, that he’s put his fingers against her lips just as he did Q’s.

“Suck,” he says, and she lets out a throaty laugh and, judging by the sound Q hears, does what he says.

“Now,” Bond murmurs, voice low, “are you going to tell me what I want to know?”

For a wild moment Q hasn’t the faintest idea what Bond is talking about. Then he remembers: the whole reason he’s been fucking this woman. The mission.

“After what just happened,” Silje whispers, “I’ll tell you anything in the world.”

Q scrambles upright, fumbling for a second at his keyboard. Then he hits _record_ , and the woman spills her secrets.

 

 

 

 

Bond comes back a scant few hours later, for once without leaving a trail of blood and destruction in his wake. He goes in for a debriefing with M and Q breathes, just breathes, trying to compose himself, trying to wipe the pink flush from his cheekbones that he can’t seem to get rid of. _Fuck James Bond_ , he thinks, but they did carry out a successful mission together.

007 keeps him waiting. Of course, he usually does, but this time Q assumes he’s actually going to return all his tech unbroken. Still, it’s late—late enough that Q would otherwise have gone home—before Bond checks in. Q is alone, in one of MI6’s underground vaults, returning an earlier model of a tracking device he’d been working to update.

“I have your tech,” Bond says from behind him.

Q turns.

Bond is looking at him with one eyebrow slightly raised, the tiniest hint of a smile pulling up one side of his mouth. For a second, Q hates him.

“I assume it’s all in one piece, for once.”

“Ah, no. Had a little accident with the expanding projectile—”

“Which you never used!”

“Collateral damage." 

“From what?”

Bond looks at him, his gaze like stone. Q glares at him for a long moment, and then slowly the atmosphere in the room turns thick, charged, and his eyelashes flutter down.

“Jealous, Q?”

Q swallows. He will not grace that question with an answer.

“I thought you were going to explode earlier,” Bond says conversationally. “You tried so hard to stay quiet, Q, but I could hear you breathing. Hot and hard in my ear.”

Bond advances, pantherlike, and Q hates how his pulse quickens—loves it, too. He’s so fucked.

“Come on, then,” Bond challenges. “Claim me, if that’s what you want.”

 _Claim_ me, Q wants to say, but instead he puts his hand on Bond’s stomach and drags it down, over his crotch.

“Well?”

Q unzips Bond’s trousers and pushes them down, reaching for his pants—but then he stops. Bond’s white briefs are smeared with dark red lipstick.

Q looks up at Bond. Bond slips a single finger into the waistband of Q’s trousers and pulls him closer. At this distance, Q can smell the woman’s perfume on him, thick and sweet, mixing with Bond’s usual musk and sweat. His stomach roils even as heat courses through him.

Bond slides his own pants and trousers down. Q can see, on the lower part of his belly, disappearing into his pubic hair, another streak of red.

“You want something she didn’t get?” Bond whispers in his ear. “You want something special, baby doll?”

Q can’t meet Bond’s eyes as he forces out a tiny nod.

“Then kiss my arse.”

Q’s breath hitches in his throat. Bond turns away, trousers and pants falling around his ankles, and braces his strong forearms against the wall. His muscled arse juts backward, somehow still utterly imposing even in this position. It’s tight, tan, downed with light hairs.

Q’s removing his glasses and dropping to his knees before he can stop himself. Fuck if he’s going to miss the chance to lick the taut muscles, to part the tight cheeks, to lean in and press an openmouthed kiss against James Bond’s arsehole. He does so now, inhaling the slightly sour scent—no flowery perfume here—pushing his face into Bond’s arse with reckless abandon. He sucks at his arsehole and then tongues along the crack, down to Bond’s balls, startling a grunt out of the older man.

“Should have known you’d love this,” Bond says, a little breathlessly. “Fuck, Q, on your knees with your face buried in my arse, do you know what you look like?”

Q moans, digging his tongue deeper, coming up for air in tiny snatches and then licking harder, spreading his spit all over Bond’s loosening arsehole. The tiny hairs around it scratch Q’s tongue. He wishes he didn’t have to stop to breathe.

Bond grunts again, and Q thrusts his pelvis ineffectually into open air. He braces one hand against the wall behind Bond and fumbles at his fly, pulling his dick free and stroking it hard.

“You gonna get off on this, Q?” Bond’s breathing is harsh. “You gonna—nngg—come from eating out my arse? You gonna come like that woman came, all over herself?” 

A sharp stab of humiliation twists into Q’s gut and he gasps, spilling hot over his hand, shooting across the cold cement floor. He pulls back from Bond’s arse to breathe, and Bond turns around, watching him collect himself with a tight expression on his craggy face.

Q looks up at him through his thick eyelashes, palms flat on his knees, waiting.

“Clean it up,” Bond says, voice thick and strained.

This time, Q doesn’t misunderstand. His eyes widen. He swallows hard, running the back of his hand across his spit-smeared mouth.

“Do it,” Bond says harshly, so Q bends down and licks a stripe of his own come from the coarse cement floor.

Bond moans. Q flicks a look at him up through his lashes; Bond is grabbing hold of his cock and pulling on it fast and rough.

Q looks back down, his heart pounding. The discomfort of his sore knees and palms, the bitter taste of his slick come, the image of himself licking clean the floor as Bond jerks off above him, fills him with something twisted and hot. His face burns; he mouths at another patch of come. 

“Q,” Bond bites out. Q looks up, and Bond is coming on his face: streaking white, hot strips over Q’s eyebrows, chin, his red, puffy mouth. Bond growls deep in his chest and shoots one last stream across Q’s cheek.

 

 

 

For the next week, all is quiet. Q sees 007 at work only in passing; both of them are professional, mostly distant, a little snarky. Q relives his and Bond’s sexual encounters again and again, under a hot shower, in his bed, on his knees in the middle of his cold, sleek flat. He mentally apologizes to Kristine Silje for her increasingly lurid roles in his fantasies, or would if he thought she’d care about some skinny boy stranger imagining James Bond sucking at her nipples several times daily.

It’s a good break, though; Q takes the time to remind himself that he really does have power, both over James Bond and over himself.

Q can tell, though he’s not quite sure how, that this is merely a pause. James Bond is famous for fucking and running, but Q knows he’s not done with him, not just yet. Maybe it’s the way he catches Bond’s steel-blue gaze on him from across the office; maybe it’s the way Bond’s mouth twists slightly up when Bond catches Q catching him.

Bond isn’t done with Q, not just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for non-pre-negotiated rough sex and power play, in which Bond acts like he doesn't care about Q, tosses him around, humiliates him, chokes him, and tells him what to do. The idea here--and this is the stuff of fantasy, not something I'm advocating as safe practice in real life--is that Bond correctly reads Q's desire to be dominated etc., which I hope is clear via Q's narration; there's never a moment when Q doubts that he wants this, though Bond doesn't really have a way of knowing that for sure. So basically, Q is extremely into it, and he participates enthusiastically and offers no objections, but they don't do the negotiation stuff first that's so important in real life (because Bond is sort of a sociopath and Q is addicted to danger). There's also some auditory voyeurism in which Bond sleeps with a woman while Q is listening over the earpiece, and the woman doesn't know; this is an OFC who would be totally unfazed, I think, if she were aware, but that's also not something Bond knows (or cares about), so warning for that too.


End file.
